


Meta Death

by Sara_Ellison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death Fix, Crack, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_Ellison/pseuds/Sara_Ellison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can't forget what happened in Jared's trailer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meta Death

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place somewhere between "Hello, Cruel World" and "The Born-Again Identity."

Jared Padalecki's trailer was actually really nice, Sam decided. It was comfortable and well-furnished. Sam didn't think much of Jared's taste in music, but the man did seem to have an eye for classy decor.

There was a sharp knock at the door, which opened without waiting for a response. "Hey, Jared." The intruder flashed a wide grin at Sam.

"Misha." The actor's name was unusual enough that Sam had no trouble recalling it, and he behaved so differently from Castiel that there was no risk of confusing them--especially when the angel's trademark suit and trenchcoat were nowhere to be found. Misha was clad in jeans and an offensively bright blue t-shirt. Sam was pretty sure Cas would never be caught dead wearing that.

Misha raised an eyebrow inquisitively, his brilliant smile diminishing only slightly, and Sam realized he was standing and staring somewhat awkwardly at the man. He cleared his throat. "Er, hi," he tried.

Misha shoved his hands in his pockets. "Is it true Jensen went home with you last night, Jay?" he asked, a wicked sort of gleam in his eye.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, wondering exactly how bad of a faux pas he had committed with that. "We, er, we wanted to practice, you know, our acting. Running lines." That was the right term, he was pretty sure.

"Uh-huh," Misha said, smirking. "I'm sure that's all you did. On a night when _everyone_ knows Gen just _happened_ to be out of the house all evening."

Sam felt his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "What exactly are you implying, Misha?" he demanded. Was this douchebag suggesting that the actor who played Sam might cheat on his wife--with the actor who played _Dean?_ The thought was revolting--once you got past the weirdness about Sam and Dean being played by actors, that was.

"I'm not implying," Misha told him, "I'm asking. If there's something between you and Jensen, I want to know about it. If only so I have something to think about in the shower. Don't spare the details."

"The fuck," was Sam's automatic, unthinking response. He was too dumbfounded for anything more coherent. Vaguely, he was aware that the expression on his face had to be truly comical.

"Is that a no?" Misha asked, looking honestly disappointed. "Damn. You're such a cocktease, Jared."

Misha had closed the distance between them before Sam had time to react. He was considerably taller than the other man, but the actor had the element of surprise on his side, and his hands fisted in the front of Sam's shirt encountered little resistance in tugging Sam down into a mind-blowing kiss. Sam couldn't say he'd ever thought much about Castiel's mouth at all, but at that moment he wondered if he would ever be able to think about anything else again. Misha's lips were incredibly soft, his tongue deft and sure as it thrust into Sam's mouth. Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind, a voice suggested that Sam ought to push Misha away and freak out a little, but he firmly told that obnoxious little voice to shut it because this kiss was intoxicating, addictive, exquisite.

When Misha finally broke away with an infuriating smirk, Sam found his mind blank and his cock throbbing, tenting the front of his jeans. "Jared's a cocktease?" he repeated. "I mean... _me?_ "

Sometimes the dream ends there, as the memory did; Misha sauntered away, leaving Sam hot and bothered, and later on set he acted as if nothing happened in the trailer, as if he didn't just rock Sam's world with nothing more than a kiss.

Sometimes it doesn't end there. These are the dreams Sam goes to sleep hoping he doesn't have, especially when he's sharing a motel room with Dean, because he always wakes up sticky, his boxers stained with come. And yet, as humiliating as it may be to have a wet dream like a kid, there's a part of Sam that loves it. A part of him longs for those nocturnal forays into the forbidden, the opportunities to let his imagination run wild.

Sometimes in his dreams, Sam grabs Misha and pins him against the side of the trailer, hastily shoves aside only the clothing he needs to get out of the way, and fucks him quick and dirty against the wall. Sometimes he unfastens both their jeans and jerks them off together, roughly, his hand wrapped around both their cocks, biting Misha's neck to muffle his own cries. Sometimes he pushes Misha down into Jared's chair and rides him, panting, relishing the burn of Misha's cock stretching him open, filling him.

Sam and Dean have just finished up a normal hunt-- _normal_ , as in no tricks, simple salt-and-burn job, and the vengeful spirit goes to its final rest like they're always supposed to. They spend one more night at the motel; Sam's relief at the return to normalcy, the brief respite from the whole world going to shit, is palpable. This, at least, is over, and he can relax; he's asleep, relatively happy, before his head hits the flat polyester-stuffed pillow.

He's surprisingly unsurprised to find himself back in Jared's trailer. This time, he pushes Misha to his knees, because a mouth that perfect shouldn't be wasted on not sucking Sam's dick. Misha's damn good at it, too, curling his tongue around the head like an ice cream cone before swallowing him down. Sam feels his cock nudging the back of Misha's throat, and he moans; Misha looks good like this, on his knees, his lips stretched around the girth of Sam's dick. Sam's hands move without conscious thought to grip Misha's thick hair, holding him in place. The actor's got too much product in his hair, and it feels weird between Sam's fingers, but his mouth feels way too fucking fantastic on Sam's dick for that to matter. " _Fuck_ ," he breathes, "your mouth, so good..."

Misha pulls off him with a slurp to mouth at his shaft. "Sam," he murmurs, rubbing his lips open and damp over the head, teasing him with little flicks of his tongue. "Sam."

"Yeah," Sam moans, as Misha licks a broad stripe up his length with the flat of his tongue. Sam's hands tighten in Misha's hair and he yanks Misha's head back for a brief moment to stare into his eyes, dark with lust, the blue bleeding inky into black. Misha's lips are shiny with saliva and Sam's precome, a slender slick strand still clinging to his lower lip from the head of Sam's cock. He pushes into Misha's mouth again, his eyes falling shut as he groans, sinking into the wet heat.

" _Sam!_ " The shout is startling, and two realizations strike Sam at once: Misha's mouth is full, so he cannot speak; and Misha thinks Sam is Jared Padalecki, so he would not--and has never before--called him by his name. Sam jerks awake, flailing reflexively.

"Whoa, easy," Dean says. He's standing over Sam, looking down at his brother with a worried expression. The lamp on the table between the beds is lit, the only source of illumination in the room, and the shadows lend an air of the dramatic to Dean's looming concern.

Sam is achingly hard, his erection tenting the covers, and he shifts onto his side, pulling himself up against the headboard. There's not much point in trying to hide it anymore--he knows Dean probably saw already--but maybe he can make this just a little less awkward. "Dude," he protests, "what? It's the middle of the night."

"You were making some serious happy noises," Dean tells him.

"I was _dreaming_ ," Sam explains, speaking slowly, as though it's a complex concept.

He half expects Dean to ask, _Clowns or midgets?_ He doesn't, though. Dean just says, "I know."

Sam isn't exactly surprised, but he is rather pissed off. "And you woke me up anyway. Asshole."

Dean is frowning, but his voice is calm. "Who were you dreaming about?"

Sam stares at him. "How is that any of your business? And why the fuck do you want to know, anyway?"

Dean sits down on his own bed, leaning toward Sam with his elbows on his knees. "I need to know how your head's doing. Tell me who it was."

Sam feels his face redden. No way is he going to tell his brother about these dreams. "It's personal," he counters.

"Sam," Dean argues, frustration audible in his voice, "I need to be able to tell the extent of your fucked-up-ness. I promise I won't judge. Just tell me."

How would Dean react, Sam wonders, if he tells his brother he was having a pornographic dream about the actor who played Dean's angel? Not well, he guesses, and winces. "How do you define fucked-up-ness?"

"Shit," Dean snarls, half-turning away from Sam, his eyes shut. He's still for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose; then he says, forcibly calm, "It was Lucifer, wasn't it?"

Sam physically flinches. "No! God, no. Is that what you thought?" The notion is like the final, mortal blow to his arousal, and his erection dies not with a bang but with a whimper, as it were. He shudders. "It's good to know, though, that having sex dreams about Satan is your threshold for 'fucked up.'"

"Given our daily lives, it kind of has to be pretty high." Dean is smiling a little. "So if you weren't actually dreaming about having happy funtimes with the Devil, how come you didn't want to tell me who it was?"

Sam is saved from having to answer by a sudden, high-pitched scream. Its source is right there, inside their motel room where it has no right to be, and Sam and Dean both instinctively dive for their weapons before actually looking to see what the fuck is happening.

The screamer is an attractive man, dark-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a t-shirt that was once horribly bright blue underneath all the blood, and an even brighter blue sweater. He looks as shocked to be there as the Winchesters are to see him; his arms are raised in front of him in a clumsily defensive posture, and his face is a mask of terror. His hair, though, is perfect; Sam knows he's got far too much product in it. He can almost feel it between his fingers. He tries to speak, and finds that he has no idea what to say.

Dean drops his gun. " _Cas_ ," he gasps and throws himself at the intruder, heedless of the blood, wrapping him in a bear hug. "You're alive! Fuck, Cas, we thought you were gone...was it God? Did he bring you back again?"

"Jensen?" the hapless man says, sounding dazed. "They killed me, man...killed me with a knife. How weird is that?"

"A knife? We thought you exploded," Dean says, loosening his grip but not letting go. "You walked into the reservoir and--hang on, did you just call me Jensen?"

"Dean," Sam says weakly, "that's not Cas."

Misha stares at him, then at Dean, then slowly backs out of Dean's arms and stares around the motel room. "What the fuck is this? The set--where--?" He turns, frantically searching. "There's no cameras. I _recognize_ this set, it's not an actual motel room!"

"Misha, calm down," Sam says. "I can explain."

Dean stares at him. "Can you?" he demands.

"Well, part of it," Sam amends. "We know about him, but he doesn't know about us. He doesn't know this is real. He thinks it's a TV show."

Dean blinks, realization dawning. "Misha," he says. "The actor who played Cas, the one who Virgil killed?"

Misha laughs suddenly, startling all three of them. "I get it," he says. "It's another of your pranks. Very funny, Jay. You can tell this story at conventions, the fans'll _love_ it." His grin fades abruptly, and he tugs at his bloodstained shirt. " _Except how am I alive?_ " he yells. "And how did I get _here?_ I _felt_ that fucker cut my throat! I--oh God you _drugged_ me, didn't you." He stares accusingly at Sam, then Dean. "You put some shit in my drink or something and I only hallucinated being killed, and this is just stage blood." He grabs the edge of his sweater and brings it to his mouth, sucks on it for a moment, and his face goes white. "That's not stage blood. Fuck, please tell me it's at least from an animal or something, tell me you didn't, like, murder a baby for this prank."

"Misha!" Sam shouts, and Misha goes still, staring at him. "Listen. It's not a prank. Your TV show is our reality. I'm Sam Winchester, and this is Dean. I know it sounds weird, but imagine how we felt when we found out there are actors playing our _lives_."

Misha looks from Sam to Dean, still pale and shaking. His gaze lands on the bedside table; next to the lamp sits Dean's hip flask, and Misha makes a beeline for it, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig as he sits down on the edge of Sam's bed. "Okay," he says, "let's say I believe you, and you're the real Winchester boys. It still doesn't explain how I'm not dead."

Misha's sudden proximity is distracting; under the blood, Sam can smell _him_ , that scent that filled his nostrils when Misha grabbed him and kissed him that day in Jared's trailer. Sam's mind slows down to take it in, and he forgets the answer to Misha's question that he was going to provide. Meanwhile, Sam's arousal undergoes a miraculous resurrection of its own.

"Maybe you are dead," Dean says. "For all we know, you're a ghost."

Misha opens his arms in invitation. "So, salt me," he offers. "I don't feel like a ghost, but what do I know? You're the expert on these things, not me. I'll take some holy water too, if you want."

Dean shrugs, goes for his bag and pulls out the essentials. He tosses a handful of salt at the actor; the crystals cling to the damp bloodstain on his shirt, but nothing notable happens. "Okay, you're not a ghost." He unscrews the bottle of holy water, tips some into his palm and flings it into Misha's face.

Misha gives him a bitchface that rivals Sam's best. "You could have let me _drink_ it," he complains, blinking drops of holy water out of his eyes.

"If you were a demon, you wouldn't have," Sam points out. "You'd have tricked us into thinking you drank it, and we'd be screwed."

"Why would I be a demon?" Misha snaps irritably. "That shit doesn't exist in the real world. When would I have had a chance to get possessed?"

"We don't know that," Dean answers, sitting down again on his bed. "We don't know that you are who you say you are. You just turned up in our motel room, some guy covered in blood who happens to look like our friend, and the best explanation is that you're the guy who played him on a TV show in an alternate universe? I wouldn't even believe it if I hadn't been to that universe myself."

"Okay," Misha says quickly, throwing his hands up in surrender, "fair point. So...instead of dying, I got zapped into your world. What I don't get is why."

"You got killed by an angel," Sam says slowly. "One who crossed over from our universe. But in your world, there are no angels, right?"

"Not to my knowledge," Misha agrees. "That creepy fucker with the knife was an _angel?_ For real?"

"So maybe the normal rules don't apply," Dean continues, catching on and ignoring Misha's question. "You get ganked by something that doesn't exist in your world, so instead of dying like you're supposed to in your world, you get brought back to ours. I don't understand why _now_ , though. You died months ago. Why'd it take you so long to get here, and why us?"

Sam clears his throat. "I have a theory," he says. "He was probably drawn to us because we're the only ones who have been to his universe. There's probably some sort of connection there."

"And the timing?" Dean prompts. "Seems a bit weird, showing up months after the fact, in the middle of the night."

Sam has a theory about that too, but he's reluctant to say it, especially to Dean. They're both looking at him expectantly, and he feels his face flush. "Um," he mutters, "maybe...because I was...dreaming about him."

There are a few seconds of silence as both of them stare at him. Sam thinks--hopes--he'll spontaneously combust, he's blushing so hard. Finally, Dean breaks the silence.

"Him?" Dean repeats, far too loudly. He jabs a finger in Misha's direction. " _Him?_ " Sam winces.

"Me?" Misha says, and Sam thinks, _Great, they're ganging up on me_ and wants to die. "Not Castiel?"

"No!" Sam says hastily. "Not Cas. Just you. Cas was a different person. I never thought about him that way. I swear." That last is directed to Dean, who's watching him with an inscrutable expression.

Misha's face is a comical mask of confusion. "Not that I'm not flattered, Sam, because I am, but when have we met before?"

Sam wishes Dean would stop looking at him like that. He's not entirely sure what that look in Dean's eyes means, but Sam knows it doesn't feel good. He focuses on Misha instead, which isn't exactly difficult, and is rather more pleasant. "Just before you died, remember when Jared and Jensen suddenly started acting strange?"

"Acting _badly_ , you mean?" Misha asks. "Even worse than usual? And actually talking to each other off-camera, and smuggling body parts from Mexico?"

"Yeah. That was us," Dean says. "Balthazar threw us into your world to keep the key safe, and somehow we replaced Jensen and Jared. Raphael sent Virgil after us. I'm sorry you got caught in the middle."

"And you came into Jared's trailer to ask if he'd taken Jensen home the night before," Sam reminds him, feeling exceedingly awkward. "That was me."

Misha's eyes widen. "Oh," he murmurs. "No wonder you acted so weird when I kissed you."

Sam is once again acutely aware of the distance between him and Misha, specifically, how little of it there is. Misha is only a few feet away, sitting on the edge of Sam's bed. He's looking intently at Sam, and Sam thinks suddenly that maybe he hates that stupid blue sweater of Misha's so much because it's not as bright as the blue of his eyes.

"So let me get this straight," Dean says. "He kissed you months ago, and you're still having wet dreams about it?"

Sam winces, and Misha grins. "I have that effect sometimes," Misha says blithely.

"And you're sure this has nothing to do with Cas?" Dean questions.

"Positive," Sam is quick to reassure him. "They weren't the same person. Cas never acted like this, did he? There's no way I could confuse Misha with Cas."

Dean looks slightly mollified. "Okay," he says. "I believe you."

"Exploded," Misha says suddenly.

"Come again?" Sam says, bewildered.

Misha looks from him to Dean, looking stunned. "You're using the past tense when you talk about Castiel. And when I first got here, Dean said Cas exploded? Did they write him out of the show after I died?" Dean is staring at him, hard, but Misha continues, oblivious. "Why couldn't Castiel have found another vessel? Jimmy's daughter Claire, or something, I dunno."

"Nobody _wrote him out_ of anything," Dean tells him, dangerously quiet. "Castiel was my friend. He died trying to undo his mistakes. I couldn't save him."

Misha gapes at him. "Jeez," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. I didn't--"

Dean cuts him off. "Whatever." He stands, grabs jeans and a sweatshirt and his boots, dressing quickly as he speaks. "I'm going for a walk. Don't follow me. And maybe don't be here when I get back, Misha." He storms through the door and slams it behind him.

Misha is stock-still, staring after him. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I wasn't thinking. I forgot this is all real to you."

Sam reaches out and squeezes Misha's hand. "You didn't know," he says. "Dean will be all right. He just needs to cool off. He beats himself up about it, thinks he might have been able to save Cas if he had been there for him all along, maybe he could have stopped Cas from opening Purgatory."

"Cas opened Purgatory? That wasn't in the show--not before I died, anyway," Misha says. "I guess it doesn't match up with your world, if Cas lived longer than I did."

Sam nods. "I guess. That stuff from the episode you guys were shooting when Dean and I were there, that never happened, either. There was no room full of Balthazar's stolen angelic weapons. The key was to a locker in a bus station, or something."

Misha's eyes narrow. "I died for a locker in a bus station?"

Sam grimaces. "Er. It looks that way, yeah. Sorry."

Misha is silent for a long moment. He looks at nothing in particular, his head bowed. He inhales sharply, and Sam thinks he's about to speak, but Misha only releases the breath again, slowly and not quite steadily. He's not looking towards Sam, but Sam can see enough of his face to see when Misha's eyes fall shut in resignation, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth for a second before he speaks again. "Dean blames himself for Castiel's death?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "He can't let it go. He's torturing himself for stuff that happened a year ago." For some reason, that makes Misha smile, still not looking at Sam. "What?"

Misha's fingers tighten and Sam suddenly realizes he's still holding Misha's hand. "Dean can't let go of the past, but _you're_ the one still having wet dreams about a kiss I gave you months ago," Misha points out, looking sidelong at Sam.

He feels himself flush, not just his face but his whole body, under Misha's knowing gaze. "Yeah, well," Sam mutters, "can you blame me?"

Misha snickers. "I can't, at that. And am I right in guessing this latest dream was interrupted before we got to the good part?" He glances pointedly at Sam's lap where his erection is tenting the covers.

Sam's chest is suddenly tight with anticipation, his breath loud in his own ears. Dean may have ignored Sam's uncomfortable state of arousal out of politeness, but Misha clearly--thankfully--has a very different agenda. "Maybe," Sam gets out, which they both know means _yes_.

Misha's eyes seem to sparkle as they lock on Sam's. He raises their hands, fingers still interlaced, to his mouth. "Would you like me to help with that?" he murmurs, warm breath ghosting over the back of Sam's hand.

The noise Sam makes is neither dignified nor a word, but they both know it means _yes_ , as well. Misha grins and flicks his tongue out, the tip tracing Sam's index finger from tip to base, then abruptly sucks the finger all the way into his mouth, causing Sam to make another one of those undignified noises that might, if one were feeling uncharitable, be termed a whimper. Misha's mouth is wet and hot, and Sam's cock twitches with imagined sense-memory as Misha sucks in another finger.

Misha smirks around Sam's hand, shifting up onto the bed proper as he shrugs out of his jacket. Sam notices, distantly, that Misha has at some point slipped out of his shoes as well, as the actor moves to straddle Sam's thighs, pulling the sheet out of the way. Sam's skin tingles where the denim of Misha's jeans touches him, oversensitized with anticipation. His head is swimming with it, so much that he barely hears the sound of protest he makes when Misha releases his hand to pull that stupid blue shirt off over his head. He emerges from the cloth with his hair mussed, and Sam reaches with his other hand, the one that Misha hasn't been sucking on, to grab a fistful of that hair and pull him in for a kiss.

It's better than he remembers, better than the dreams, and Sam wonders how much better in reality the other things they did in the dreams would feel. He moans into the kiss as Misha's hands come up to caress Sam's chest, fingers skating over skin and teasing briefly at his nipples. Sam arches into the touch, pulling Misha hard against him, Sam's other hand on Misha's ass.

Misha breaks the kiss, grinning against Sam's mouth as his hands drop to the waistband of his jeans. "So, this dream you were having," he purrs. "Tell me about it." He unfastens the jeans, pushing them down his hips; Sam glances down and immediately forgets what he was going to say because Misha isn't wearing underwear. He's every bit as hard as Sam is, the head of his cock flushed dark and slick with precome. He palms himself briefly before lifting himself up off Sam's legs to slide the jeans down his thighs, and Sam, struck by how brilliant an idea that is, hastily pushes his own damp boxers down as well.

"Er," he says, remembering he's been asking a question and trying to focus through the haze of lust to remember what it was. "The dream? It always starts out the same." Misha settles back in Sam's lap, flesh to flesh, wrenching a groan from Sam at the contact. "Oh, God." Breathlessly, he continues. "We're in Jared's trailer, and you kiss me, like you did that day. Best fucking kiss of my life."

"And then?" Misha prompts, rolling his hips in a slow grind. He takes Sam's hand again in both of his, bringing it back to his mouth.

"Different things," Sam manages, rocking up against the other man as Misha curls his tongue around three of Sam's fingers. "Each time. This time you were on your knees, sucking--" His voice breaks as Misha demonstrates on Sam's fingers, and his cock jumps in sympathy.

Misha pulls Sam's hand out of his mouth, guiding it down between his legs. Sam's fingers slip into the cleft of his ass, find Misha's entrance and Sam hesitates, because his fingers are wet but not that wet, shouldn't they use something more? Before he can voice his concern, though, Misha has pushed back against Sam's hand and his finger slips inside. It's tight but Misha takes it easily, his face serene as he rocks back, sheathing Sam's finger to the base. "And then?" he says again, and it takes Sam a moment to figure out he's still asking about the dream.

"And then Dean woke me up because I was making too much noise," Sam says, only slightly bitterly because it's hard to be angry at his brother when Misha is naked in his lap. Misha chuckles, low and dirty. Sam, mildly annoyed at being laughed at, retaliates by crooking his finger against Misha's prostate, making the other man gasp, before adding a second finger, scissoring them to stretch Misha open.

Misha is rocking back, fucking himself on Sam's hand by the time he adds the third finger. Misha's eyes are bright with undisguised desire, his hands gripping Sam's shoulders hard enough to bruise. His lips are parted, moist and swollen from kissing and Sam can't resist pressing his mouth to Misha's again, tongue slipping past his lips as Sam withdraws his hand. Misha's hand wraps around Sam's cock at the same moment as Sam's own, and they guide him together, holding him steady as Misha sinks onto him with a long groan.

Sam's hands land on Misha's hips, holding him still for a moment; Misha is so hot and tight around him, and Sam has been so hard for so long, he is dangerously close to it all being over too soon. He holds Misha in place until Sam gets ahold of himself, then slackens his grip and allows Misha to lift himself up, Sam's dick sliding almost all the way out of him before he drops back down, Sam thrusting up to meet him as they slam together. Sam's head falls back, thudding lightly against the headboard. "Fuck, Misha," he groans, and Misha moans wordlessly in reply as he impales himself again and again.

Sam's hips rock up to meet Misha's, pleasure sparking along his spine with each thrust. He's nearly incoherent, every word he tries to speak cut off by a gasp as Misha clenches around him, the hot friction of his body drawing out Sam's orgasm from deep within him. White heat coils low in his belly, spiking down into his groin, his balls pulled up tight against his body. He reaches for Misha's dick instinctively, wrapping a hand around it and eliciting a moan from the man atop him. "Come with me," Sam pants, his fingers tightening around Misha's cock.

"Sam!" Misha cries, "Fuck, yes!" and he bucks into Sam's grip, clenching around Sam's cock, and that's it. Sam feels his control slip, ecstasy taking hold as Misha shivers and tenses above him, the first pulse of hot fluid spurting over Sam's fingers as his hips jerk, thrusting up wildly into Misha's body as he comes. Misha's spine is bowed, his semen splashing up Sam's chest as Sam fucks him through his orgasm.

Misha goes limp abruptly, nearly falling off of Sam, bonelessly, before Sam has stopped shuddering through the aftershocks of his climax. "Jesus," Sam says, reaching to grab Misha, but the other man merely curls down to lie on the bed beside him, his head resting on Sam's shoulder. "You okay?" Sam asks him.

Misha's eyes are closed; his response is a grin and a heartfelt groan, his hand slipping down to rest on Sam's thigh and giving a firm squeeze. Sam decides to take that as an affirmative. He can't stop a grin of his own, content and loose-limbed. Reality is so much better than he imagined. "Jesus," he murmurs again, in an entirely different tone.

"Name's Misha," mumbles the man beside him, startling a laugh from Sam. He thought Misha had drifted off to sleep. Misha stretches a bit and resettles himself along Sam's side. "Hey...you think Dean will forgive me?"

"Sure," Sam says. "He'll cool off." He glances at the clock beside the bed. "Probably be back soon, actually."

Misha hums a noncommittal reply. His eyes are still closed, his face serene, but Sam can feel tension in the lines of his body. "Think it'd be okay if I tag along with you boys for a bit? I know a lot about what you do."

The request catches Sam off-guard, although it's clear Misha has been thinking about it for a while. "You mean, hunt with us?" There's an undeniable part of him that wants to keep Misha close, but... "There's a difference between acting it and doing it. It's not exactly gonna be safe."

Misha opens his eyes, and Sam is struck again by how intensely blue they are. "It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

Sam winces. "There are actors in this universe," he points out. "You could land another role, I'm sure."

"My manager isn't in this universe," Misha points out, "and as far as anyone here is concerned, I don't exist, so I have no film credits. I'd have to start my career over from scratch. Hell, I've got no money, no identity. I may as well make my living from credit card fraud and hustling pool."

His argument has merit, Sam is forced to admit, and he's pretty sure that's not just his dick doing the thinking. Still, he wouldn't mind a second opinion to check his logic. "How about we talk about it with Dean when he comes back," he offers.

Misha opens his mouth to say something, and pauses. He frowns. "Did you just feel that?"

In the silence, Sam notices it too. The bed is shaking--barely, just a tremor, like a distant earthquake. "Yeah." He jumps up, reaching for his boxers; whether it's a seismic event or something else, it seems to him that not being naked would be preferable. Misha watches him, frowning.

The flask on the nightstand begins to rattle against the wood as the shaking increases in force. Sam is about to suggest that he and Misha get the hell out when the noise starts, quiet at first but piercingly high. Wincing, he claps his hands over his ears. "Shit!" he snarls.

Misha's eyes have gone wide. He doesn't seem bothered by the sound, but rather awed--for a second, before his face shifts into a mask of annoyance. "You ass," he snaps, to Sam's confusion, but Misha isn't looking at him. "Didn't I just _say_ I have nowhere else to go?" The last word is nearly a shout to be heard over the increasing din. The actor's eyes are unfocused, his head tilted upward. He stands up from the bed as Sam cringes in agony, his eardrums aching from the aural onslaught. The light in the room grows steadily brighter, until Sam has to squint to see.

"Why the fuck not?" Misha yells at the ceiling. "Give me a fucking purpose in this universe, sure!" The window shatters outward, followed by the television screen. Sam feels a warm trickle of wetness under his palms, and he's sure his ears are bleeding but he doesn't dare drop his hands to check.

The door bursts open, but that's nothing supernatural, just Dean, breathless and panicked. "Sam!" he shouts--or Sam assumes he does, but he can't hear over the unbearable noise. The word Misha screams is equally inaudible, but unmistakable as his lips form a single syllable. _Yes._

Sam flings up an arm to shield his face from the flare of white light as the sound cuts out and the shaking abruptly ceases. He lowers it again in time to see the light coalesce around Misha, then fade altogether. It leaves the room in comparative darkness, only the dawn light filtering through the window providing illumination. The lightbulbs lie in shattered pieces below their fixtures.

Everything is still and Sam thinks he could cut the sudden tension in the room with a knife. He and Dean both stare at the naked man in the middle of the room, who, for his part, has his eyes locked firmly on Dean's face. Sam fights down a wild urge to laugh, or cry, or scream. Part of him wants to yell at them to do something, say something, _move_ for God's sake. The other part thinks that maybe he shouldn't be here at all, that he should leave them alone together.

Dean moves first. He takes a step toward his bed, slowly, then another, still transfixed by that blue-eyed gaze. He reaches under his pillow and draws out a folded pile of beige cloth. Sam could tease him about this, but it's too sweet for mockery, almost painfully so. He bites his lip, watching riveted as Dean holds out the trenchcoat that he pulled from the water that terrible day.

Castiel takes the coat from Dean's hands, wraps his arms around it and holds it to his chest. He doesn't speak, but the look on his face says more than words ever could.

Dean slowly, carefully reaches out to lay a hand against the angel's face, as though he's not sure Castiel is really there. He exhales visibly when his fingers encounter solid flesh, his thumb tracing over Castiel's cheekbone. Cas turns his head to press his lips into Dean's palm.

"I kept it for you," Dean says quietly, his voice remarkably steady considering the moisture glistening on his cheeks. "I knew you'd be back. I figured you'd want it when you finally showed."

"I'm sorry," Cas says. "For everything I did. I can never truly make amends."

"I forgive you," Sam puts in. Dean jumps, evidently having forgotten Sam was there. "I mean, for breaking my wall. I'm kind of glad you did."

The angel glances at Sam. "Thank you," he says earnestly. His eyes are filled with hope when he turns back to Dean.

Dean's expression has gone blank, closed-off, and he lets his hand fall back to his side. Castiel's face falls, apprehension painted across his features, the fleeting hope fading. "Things fall apart," Dean mutters. "They fall apart so hard. You can't ever put them back the way they were." He heaves a sigh. "You know, it takes time. You can't just show up again and expect--"

"I know," Cas says quickly.

"There's just so much to work through," Dean continues, shaking his head. "Trust has to be built again, on both sides. You have to learn if, if we're even the same people we were, if we can fit in each other's lives. It's a long, important process, and can we just skip it? Can you just be kissing me now?"

Cas stares at him, evidently as stunned as Sam, who is trying to figure out if he could possibly have heard that right. After three and a half years of dancing around each other, Dean seems to finally have the balls to ask for what he wants.

Castiel grabs the front of Dean's shirt and hauls him in, crushing their mouths together, the folded trenchcoat pinned between their bodies. Dean's hands come up to grip Cas' shoulders, fingers digging into the skin as if he's afraid Cas will escape.

They're both breathing heavily when they break apart. This, Sam thinks, is as good a time as any to remind them of his existence, before things get too uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "Before you go any farther, you might want to take a shower, Cas," he says awkwardly.

Cas turns to glance at him, then looks down at himself. Carefully, he reaches a hand back between his thighs. It comes away sticky. "Yes," he agrees, "Of course. My vessel has recently engaged in coitus."

"Dude!" Dean protests, taking a step back and glaring at Sam. "You couldn't have used a condom? Come on!"

"Sorry," Sam says sheepishly.

Castiel waves a hand dismissively, and Sam sees the evidence of their passion vanish from Cas' fingertips. "It is not of import," he declares. He turns back to Dean with a look of deadly seriousness. "Dean. I love you," he informs him gravely.

"I know, Cas," Dean answers, equally somberly, and kisses the angel again.

Sam finds himself grinning. All in all, tonight has turned out to be rather fantastic.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, man. I love that Misha is a legitimate character in SPNverse. You know how other fandoms' crack is Star Trek's canon? Well, Star Trek's crack is SPN's canon.
> 
> Misha has a line borrowed from Joss Whedon. Dean's little speech at the end is modified from one written by Drew Z. Greenberg that also belongs to Joss Whedon.
> 
> This was meant to be finished and posted before Cas came back in canon, but it wasn't and then I went away to Basic Combat Training and now I'm back, long story...so, I finally finished this terrible thing and posted it at three in the morning before I changed my mind.


End file.
